


Distraction Tactic B

by Captain_Cha0s



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blüdhaven, Bottom Dick Grayson, M/M, Sexual Content, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26257084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Cha0s/pseuds/Captain_Cha0s
Summary: Deathstroke is in town for a job, and Dick is not going to let him kill anyone in his city, thank you very much.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 54
Kudos: 189





	1. Chapter 1

It was raining, and if Slade Wilson was a normal person, he would have been chilled to the bone. He lay on his stomach, flush to the rooftop on which he waited for his target. He was well aware that if they took any longer, he'd soon be lying in a puddle. Obviously, this was not how he wanted his night to go. That meant re-cleaning the armour, which he prided himself on keeping in almost pristine condition. He was very protective of his possessions.

Somewhere close behind, Dick Grayson watched the mercenary carefully. The neon billboard backing him bathed him in a soft blue light, highlighting the electric hues of his Nightwing suit. If Slade was to turn around now, he'd be pinned there, caught in the headlights. Frankly, he was surprised he hadn't been noticed yet. Although notorious for his ability to move absolutely silently, splashing about across rooftops was the opposite of subtle, and he would have to cross a fair few puddles to reach his adversary.

His hair was absolutely drenched, and raindrops ran down his face, dripping from his nose. His own suit did nothing against the weather, and he was sure he'd catch a cold if he had to stay out here any longer. Unfortunately, he'd always been quite prone to them - and Dick was well aware that Slade would be less than inclined to look after him if Nightwing went and messed up his shot.

A number of days ago, Deathstroke had turned up in full gear in Dick's apartment, warning him that he was in Bludhaven for a job; business, not pleasure (although pleasure could always be arranged). Further than that, he had been less than forthcoming about who he was here to kill - if that was what the job involved, of course. Not that anyone ever hired Slade for anything else. Deathstroke the Terminator was not usually employed for his incredible culinary skills (although Dick had to admit, the man made a mean omelette). The days when he'd stay long enough to cook Dick breakfast - although rare - were always a blessing he looked forward to. He wished that that was the profession the merc had gone into, then he'd be less resistant to take him home to the family.

Since the visit, Dick had been running himself ragged trying to work out exactly who Slade's target was going to be, to avoid them becoming a smear on the pavement. He was sure he had failed, the clock ticking down all too fast, until he came across the man purely by chance. Although, after having warned Dick about why he was in town, it felt almost as though Slade _wanted_ to be found. And with someone as manipulative as the mercenary, you couldn't put it past him.

Whatever the outcome of the night was to be, it would be of his own design. Whatever game he was playing, he was going to win.

Dick knew that there was no way of talking him out of killing his mark. In short, Slade had no better nature to appeal to. He wouldn't stop until his target was being referred to in the past tense. Not without enough financial persuasion. And there was no way that Dick could afford Deathstroke's prices, since declaring his own financial independence from Bruce. Not that the billionaire wouldn't give his son the money if he asked, of course. Dick had the man wrapped around his finger since reintegrating into the family, Bruce trying to earn his forgiveness any way he could without ever actually bringing up that that was what he was doing (not that it wasn't painfully obvious). He was still far too emotionally constipated to talk about the matter, but he was _trying_.

But with the amount required, he'd want to know _why_ , and that wasn't a conversation Richard John Grayson was prepared to have, thank you very much. Bruce would ask questions. Too many questions. And would more than likely find out too many answers, too. There was a reason they called him the world's greatest detective (even if 'they' was usually Bruce himself). For a man driven by self loathing, he did love to pat himself on the back for his own genius. Not that Dick had helped the ego boost, buying him a mug declaring him as such for his birthday on year. He'd needed a new one, since no longer being able to even _look_ at the one Jason had got him for their first Christmas. The one which read _No. 1 Dad_. That wound was still far too fresh - even more so with his recent return.

No. The idea of Dick's father-in-everything-but-blood-and-paperwork finding out about whatever he and Slade Wilson had going on would be far too mortifying. Especially since _whatever they had_ , had only really come about as a way for Dick to get back at Bruce. After the whole _getting fired as Robin_ incident, he had gone off the rails just a little - which was, frankly, quite understandable. Naming himself after a Kryptonian hero? Moving to Bludhaven? Becoming a cop? Sleeping with an enemy of the Batman? All could be chalked up to some very valid teen rebellion.

Except now, at 24, he hadn't been a teen for quite a few years, and he wasn't sure what excuse he was allowed to use anymore. Enemies, to friends, to lovers (although somewhere along the line, they seemed to have skipped out on 'friends') couldn't possibly begin to justifying it.

Suddenly, Dick shivered, and he was sure he'd given himself away. He felt as though someone had run over his grave. A raindrop had fallen from his damp hair at the back of his neck, straight down his back. It had got a little long recently, and he was aware he was a little overdue a haircut - not wanting to risk the mullet ever again. He was going for sexy dishevelled, but it was now starting to border more on dishevelled. Of course, the current downpour didn't help.

Just ahead, Slade stiffened slightly, like he now knew he wasn't alone anymore. And as if that wasn't enough of an indication:

"Feeling cold, little bird?" He asked, gruff voice muffled by his mask, but still carrying easily to Dick across the rooftop.

Dick shivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the weather.

He was all too aware that there was a very limited number of outcomes to this situation, wherein the target survived.

Option one, they fight. Despite knowing that Nightwing could not best Deathstroke in hand to hand combat (or really any kind of combat, short of a battle of whits), if Dick could piss him off enough, it would at least shift the merc's focus; to keep it on him, instead of the target, for long enough for them to get away. Although that option ran the very real risk of ending a little torture-y for him, because despite Slade's fondness for his little pain in the ass, he was more than happy to teach him any lessons he believed he needed to learn about ruining his work. Nightwing's interventions made him look weak, and well, he couldn't have that now, could he?

Option two, which he much, _much_ preferred, would be to distract him in... _Other_ ways. Although, when it was Deathstroke he was tangling with, he knew that route might end just as painfully. But at least he'd enjoy it more; cheeks flushing when Slade had once commented that it seemed he _liked_ to be punished.

A million quips raced through his mind, but he was sure he couldn't make a single one without his teeth chattering. And yet he persisted-

"Not for long, if you wanted to come and warm me up?"

He inwardly cringes. That was not one of his best.

"Busy." Slade grunts, although Dick can hear the smirk in the word.

That's got him thinking about it at least.

Deciding that there was no need to keep covert, now that Slade knows exactly where he is, Dick went to move across the rooftop towards him. Maybe then, if he saw where his weapon was pointed, he'd be able to take a stab at who the target might be. Not that he didn't know what building they were opposite. He knew Bludhaven like the back of his hand. She was his city; his home. But he was curious to know _which_ gang had taken root in the recently condemned apartment block, because although there'd been rumours, he hadn't actually got eyes on the place just yet for confirmation - held up battling criminals at the other end of town, as of late. Blockbuster business always seemed to take precedence.

However, Dick took no more than a half stride in the direction of the ledge before Slade threatened, "Move any closer, and the first bullet goes in your knee."

And it sounds like he means it. Maybe. But Dick is in the mood to be a brat tonight - especially when he knows it will work towards his end goal of distracting his...

Well, he doesn't know how to finish that sentence. He doesn't have a name for what Slade Wilson is to him, and he'd like to keep it that way. The second this _thing_ they have gets a name, it becomes a little too real. A little more than _mutual respect_ \- even if it's probably a little (or a lot) more than that already. But you get the gist.

Taking another step forward, Dick grins like the sun, eyes sparkling, "Don't you think that will give away your position? Wouldn't be very good at your job, if you start firing shots, and scare off your target."

Deathstroke's gloves tighten on the gun, threatening. The leather creaks. Otherwise, he stays silent.

"Also, I don't think you wanna put up with my moaning - if you shot me." Dick takes another step forward, the bright blue billboard light glinting off the puddles he steps through.

Slade doesn't dare turn to look at him. With the way that blue would reflect onto the vigilante's face, catching him at all the right angles, he knows he'll be a sight. And if he dares to look, Dick's plans to distract him might just work. Because he knows _exactly_ what the kid is trying to do. The boy can be just as cunning and manipulative as him - when he wants to be. He just hides it behind a pretty face. And somehow, that makes it all the more evil.

"Because you _know_ I'd moan." Dick continues.

And _fuck_ if he isn't starting to wear Slade down. He might just have to find a way to shut him up. Find another use for that smart mouth. Because the way he says that sentence, that _word_ , is more than a little suggestive...

Suddenly, Dick is right by his ear, and how the _hell_ did Slade let him get there? Let him get that _close_? He's starting to feel like he's losing control of the situation, fast.

"Why don't you put that gun down," Dick hushes in his ear like a serpent, the image of temptation, "And we can-"

And that's as far as he gets before Slade reaches the end of his very short tether, disregarding his rifle, and his target, and his job, to pin the hero to the rooftop. He's well aware of their position, with Nightwing, Bludhaven's very own hero, panting in surprise beneath him. Wrists held down either side of his head. Slade's knee between his thighs. And with the way he rolled with Slade (not that he could do much against the super soldier strength), it's like this is exactly what he was aiming for.

It leaves the mercenary wondering, once again, who's game their playing - and who's winning. And at that thought, Slade doesn't know whether he wants to kiss him or kill him. Although his damn mask is really restricting him of options on the intimacy front. He wishes he could rip it off, but that would mean letting go of Dick's wrists, and when this is about the only upper hand he currently feels like he still has, he isn't quite ready to relinquish it yet.

Dick looks lost then as well, staring him right in the eye as if he'll find his answer there, and it's as if he can read Slade's mind; not sure if he should be smiling because his plan worked, or scared because _his plan worked_.

But it doesn't matter. Not at that moment. Because there's the sound of vehicles pulling up outside the building across the street, followed by voices. Both Dick and Slade stay silent at the sound of such commotion, neither moving a muscle from their compromising position, still so intimately close; waiting until the owners of the voices head into the building.

Dick can't decide if he likes this position or not. The roof is rough underneath his shoulders, made more uncomfortable with the way Slade is holding his hands down. His escrima sticks dig painfully into his back. He can feel the cool of the roof beneath him as well, fortune enough to have landed between puddles, the surface more than a little uneven. But it still chills him through. Such a contrast to the weight on top of him. He can feel the heat of Slade's body, even through the man's armour. He always ran hot, which was something Dick loved about him in the Winter. If not for his discomfort in the position, he'd happily stay here, like this beneath him, for the rest of the night.

His attention shifts from this line of thought when he suddenly realises Slade isn't concentrating on him anymore. He doesn't know when he looked away, too distracted by the way their bodies meet, to having been paying enough attention. For which, he mentally kicks himself. Guess the new arrivals were to remain a mystery. But whoever they were, if Slade's reaction was anything to go by, it seemed that his target had finally arrived...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented. It means so so much to me!! Consider this chapter my thanks for all your kind words x  
> The votes are in, so here's the horny/torture-y conclusion!  
> It may not be the chapter you deserve, but it's the one you need right now...
> 
> (Please let me know if you feel I've missed any tags. Don't want anyone to go in unprepared uno.)

Jason Todd knew that Bludhaven wasn't his city, but he wasn't about to ask the golden boy's permission to be here. He just hoped that they wouldn't run into each other. Since his glorious return, any run ins with the bat clan were always very tense. Even if Dick was still begrudgingly his favourite.

Before Jason had died, they'd not been very close. (Blame Bruce for that - as he now blamed Bruce for everything). That was, until Jason had suddenly turned up at Hogan's Diner, where Dick had been working at the time, demanding to meet his predecessor. He was just so tiny and determined, in his oversized red hoodie and split knuckles, Dick could hardly say no to the kid - putting aside any resentment he felt at who Jason was the second he laid eyes on him. Despite being Dick's replacement, and the complicated emotions which came with that, Jay was just too damn likeable (in a rough round the edges, with a heart of gold, kind of way).

They'd taken a booth, and talked about things. Dick's firing. His leaving the Titans. Breaking up with Kori. Moving to Bludhaven. It was strange, how freely he'd told Jason his life story - in a way he'd never been able to open up with anyone else. Although, even Jason could tell he wasn't quite telling him everything.

_A very specific character was missing from his tale._

In return, Jason had really told Dick nothing at all. Of course, his honorary big bro would eventually find out about what his life had been like before the manor. But on that first day, the earliest memory Jason let him know of was his attempt at stealing the hubcaps off the Batmobile.

_They had bats on them, okay? They were freaking cool!_

Dick had laughed so hard, strawberry milkshake had almost poured out his nose (which had set Jason off in return).

From that day on, Dick had promised to make an effort for the kid, to hang out at least once a week to perform some Official Big Brother Duties (while avoiding Bruce at all cost). Arcade days. Taking rides on his motorbike. Going out on patrol together. And he'd kept his promise, making an effort until Jason was no longer there to make an effort for.

Since then, they only interacted on rooftops; Nightwing begging the Red Hood to stop what he was doing, and come home. Which had confused Jason to no end. Since when had Dick started referring to the manor as home again? A lot must have changed in those five years...

But Red Hood had no intention of stopping what he was doing until Roman Sionis was 6 feet under. Also, he had a home, and it certainly wasn't with the Bats. It was the apartment he shared with a couple of very particular red heads he'd stolen from Dick's own personal collection.

When Jason finally arrived at his destination, he shook himself from these thoughts. A trip down memory lane was dangerous. He found they hurt, more often than not; making his distance from the family all the more hard. Although he couldn't deny, he wouldn't be _entirely_ against catching Dick in Hogan's again, and catching up on the last five years. Maybe this time it would be Jason's turn to spill his guts? They _had_ had some damn good chilli dogs...

Climbing from his car, he glanced up to the building opposite where he was parked up. A flash of blue had caught his eye, but he now dismissed it as the billboard, lighting up the night sky. He suddenly wasn't sure if he was disappointed or not. Bludhaven was always far too neon for his liking; so lit up, you could barely see the stars. If he was going to get sentimental, then he would at least admit that there was one thing he missed about the manor; you could _always_ see the stars.

Turning his attention back to the condemned apartment block before him, he inspected it from behind the eyes of his helmet. The blue of the overhead billboard glinted off it as he stepped inside, ready to meet the False Facers who had arrived just a matter of minutes ago. Of course, he wanted to scope out the place first, before their meeting could begin. He didn't trust Roman, or his men - and rightly so; no idea just yet of the price Black Mask had put on his precious head. 

***

Dick heard the last car pull up, noting the loud rumble it made, which set it apart from the other, newer vehicles. But from his position still pinned beneath Deathstroke, he wasn't exactly able to get a look at the driver. Slade's attention was back on him then, and he knew what the look he was giving him meant, even through the mask.

Make a sound, and you're _dead_.

Dick almost wanted to do it; to push his luck, just to see what Slade would do. Because as much as he liked to believe the man wouldn't kill him, he knew his affections would only go so far. He'd made it clear that he had no qualms about hurting him in the past. And was sure he could take whatever the mercenary dish out. Probably.

But then, whoever had arrived had disappeared just as quickly into the building. With the silence that had fallen between them, Dick had heard their footsteps clearly, crunching through broken glass as they'd climbed the front steps, followed by nothing but quiet once they'd stepped inside.

Additionally, Slade had now relaxed above him. Just a little. Just enough to inform him that they were alone once again. Just enough for Dick to pull a hand free of Slade's grip, to grab him by the arm. With a move he'd perfected in training during his years as Robin, he then pulled Slade's arm to his chest, and rolled them over, kicking the man away the second he was free. Although, to someone like Deathstroke, a healthy kick to the ribs was nothing he couldn't shake off. In fact, Dick was pretty sure he'd hurt his own foot far more than he'd hurt the man no longer on top of him.

In an instant, movements so springy and alive, Dick was back on his feet. He pulled his escrima sticks from his back in one fluid movement, though didn't turn them on. If Slade got one over on him, they were more than likely to be used against them. He may come to regret pulling them out at all - but it had been more muscle memory than anything else.

"I won't let you hurt anyone." He stood tall, a smile on his face.

Slade climbed slowly to his feet, moves far more calculating. Giving him time to weigh up the situation, as though he was still coming to a decision on how he wanted it to end. Studying his little bird, like a predatory studies their prey.

" _Let_?" He echoes Dick's words, letting it hang in the air like a threat.

There's that slight growl to his voice again, like he's taking charge, and Dick doesn't want to admit where the next shiver was sent. He's so, so glad he's wearing a cup...

"Who are you after?" Dick demands, knowing he was unlikely to get an answer.

His gaze flickers to the apartment building, in the hopes of seeing anything which would give it away. And as luck would have it, parked up in the street below, was a clue so loud, it felt like a slap in the face. Sure, anyone could have owned a cherry red Mustang. But not with the modifications Dick recognised. He knew the car, because it was the one Jason had bragged to him about for hours, because he and Bruce had worked on it together. A real bonding experience for them both, solidifying their relationship as father and son. Jason had even picked out the colour! And when the Red Hood had returned to Gotham, it was that very same car he'd stolen, right out of Bruce Wayne's own personal garage.

"Hood-" Dick frowned in complete confusing, just starting to put the pieces together, when Slade clocked him.

The hit hadn't been hard enough to cause any permanent damage - because they both knew that Deathstroke could have broken his jaw, if he really wanted to. But Slade didn't want to hurt him. Despite popular belief, he didn't actually enjoy hurting his little bird (not to an unforgivable extent, anyway). He had only intended to draw him back into the scene, and out of his own head. And it seemed to have worked. Dick could get a little distracted sometimes...

" _Ow_." Dick complained, testing his jaw. "That hurt!"

It hadn't. The reaction was more from shock than anything else. It certainly hadn't been enough to shut him up...

"I knew, when I took this job, I had two chances to take out my target. When he went into the building, and when he comes out." Slade explained, now he had Dick's full attention again. "Knowing my target, I don't expect their meeting to last very long. So I don't have a lot of time to punish you accordingly."

"Well you better get on with it then!" Dick grinned, throwing himself straight into the action, escrimas swinging.

Although he knew he should give an adversary as dangerous as Deathstroke his full focus, Dick couldn't help getting lost in his own head again. He'd have to multitask; fight and think. Not a sensible idea, when Slade kept getting easy hits in. The thing was though, Dick was suddenly wondering if he'd ever actually _told_ Slade about the Red Hood. Sure, he knew enough about the family and their secret identities to have known that Jason Todd was the second Robin. And Dick was sure he'd mentioned his estranged brother's strange return - having needed more than a little emotional (and physical) support at the time. But he was just starting to wonder if he'd told Slade who he'd come back _as_. It wasn't as if he could continue his usual chattiness while having a breakdown.

But surely Slade must know? _Surely_? What other reason would he have turned up at Dick's apartment, to warn him about the hit? Unless it really _had_ just been a courtesy; warning Nightwing that something was going down in _his_ city.

Oh shit shit _shit_.

***

Unsurprisingly, the fight didn't last particularly long. He wanted to distract Slade, not piss him off. Although, we was pretty sure he had succeeded at that pretty well, too. Otherwise, he might not be currently shoved face first into the big blue billboard. Even through his white out lenses, it's glow is blinding. Especially this close.

Things had certainly gotten heated. The Nightwing suit was in tatters, torn apart with the use of Deathstroke's sword and hands. He was behind him now, pressed so firmly against Dick's back, that his armour was beginning to dig in uncomfortably. Well, not quite uncomfortable enough for him to be making any complaints. Actually, scratch all that. He was really quite enjoying the proximity; biting his lip to keep from grinning.

Of all the outcomes he'd foreseen of the night, this was working out to be his favourite. He just had to keep it up for long enough for Red Hood to get away. Goddamnit, Jason owed him one. What he went through for that kid...

"I want to hear you say it." Slade growled in a low baritone, beard brushing Dick's ear now his mask is removed (having happened some time during the fight).

Right now however, he can't say much of anything. It's all so overwhelming. The chill of the air now the rain had finally stopped. The heat of Slade's body. All he can do is watch as his breath fogs up the surface of the billboard, where his face is currently pressed hard against it.

Dick is shocked suddenly at a new sensation, as a hand lands hard on his ass. It brings him back again, although he's not sure what's required of him.

" _Little bird_?" Slade presses, weight removed for just a moment, giving Dick an inch to breath again.

Ah, right. He needs to hear the big Y-E-S. Because, whatever it was that was going on between them (right now and in general), he wouldn't make a move without Dick's permission. He was, after all, a mercenary with morals.

This made it all the more easy for Dick to justify their arrangement to himself - because Slade seemed to respect his consent more than a lot of other people he'd known; a killer for hire who treated him better than the women at the galas who'd linger in their touches a little too long, or the reporters who'd ask far too invading questions. Because even without all his fancy little super human advancements, Slade still read Dick's social cues, and acted on them accordingly. He'd never break his code there.

Although, arguably, the relationship still probably couldn't be considered healthy. Not when Dick was _literally_ sleeping with a murderer - who was _literally_ after his sort-of brother. But a murderer who was so, so kind to him when he needed it (and so very not, when he needed that too). And right now, he was ready to give Dick exactly want he needed, only waiting for that-

"Please, Slade. _Please_." He begged, voice practically a whine.

This might not have been the title the man was looking for, but it still made him smirk; exactly what he wanted to hear.

Taking his cue, Slade leaned in, growling, "Good boy." Before landing another surprising smack to his ass. "But didn't the big bad Bat teach you about names in the field?"

Dick's cheeks heat up - both at the term of endearment, and the mention of 'the bat'. He'd rather not be thinking about his family right now, if it was all the same. Even if it's for them he's here-

The next slap is hard enough to leave a hand print, and informs Dick that it wasn't a rhetorical question. Slade is looking for an answer. Not 'Deathstroke'. Probably 'Master', or-

"Yes, _sir_." Dick tries to catch his breath, hands pushing against the billboard before him to keep him upright.

His escrima sticks were lost long ago in the fight, discarded somewhere on the rooftop, leaving his hands free. He could find them again once they were finished here.

He doesn't have time to worry about them now, though. Not when Slade's breath is on the back of his neck, followed by the pinch of teeth as he begins littering little kisses there, down to his shoulder. Claiming him with bite marks that make Dick moan into each one. He really hopes they're not going to be visible above the collar of his uniform. Both as a cop, and as Nightwing.

"Don't think I've forgotten..." Slade moves to the other side, starting the routine again, from his neck to his shoulder. "That you need to be punished..."

Dick's about to reply something witty. A classic Nightwing one liner. But he doesn't get the chance before Slade's actions become more hungry, forcefully spinning his little bird round to face him. To finally capture him in a proper kiss; none too gentle as his tongue forces its way into his mouth. Fingers tangle in Dick's messy hair, the length giving him something to hold onto. Tugging a little in the way he know he likes. Slade even bites his lip as a reminder when they break apart.

"Ready?" He asks after letting Dick in on this little taste of what he's in for - as if the fight wasn't enough.

He'll certainly have to patch up a few scrapes and bruises when he gets home - if Slade wouldn't patch them up for him.

"Yes, sir." Dick grins again, lips tainted red from where Slade managed to tear open an old split.

Thank Lady Vic for that.

Dick lets himself be manhandled into a new, comfortable position; back against the billboard as he's hiked up with his legs around Slade's waist. Both enjoyed the friction, although would soon be needing a little more. But then Slade is kissing him again, squeezing his thighs where he has an iron grip on them, and Dick decides he is pretty happy with this position, too.

Lit up in the neon blue light, if anyone were to look up now, they'd be a pretty silhouetted display of voyeurism. With the Nightwing suit more than a little exposing in more than a few intimate areas since all the methodical tearing, Dick should care a lot more than he does. Especially when the target could return any moment. No, not just a target.

He really hoped he could provide enough of a distraction for Slade. If he did his job here well enough, he might just save Jason's life...

***

When Jason left the apartment block almost ten minutes later, he felt like a weight had been lifted from his very soul. The bodies of Roman's men wouldn't take long to be discovered - not with the building due to come down in less than a week. It was why it was the best place for the meeting to have taken place; no one lived there to question the strange activities going on, and by the time they did, the Hood would be long gone. In fact, as far as he was aware, the whole street was near enough abandoned. This end of Bludhaven was practically a ghost town. Not a place you wanted to be alone at night - if there was anywhere you'd want to be alone at night in Blud.

Although, if the noises coming from the opposite rooftop were any indication, Jason wasn't alone at all. Although distant from where he stood, the second he noticed the sounds of people, his hands drifted slowly to the twin guns strapped to his thighs. Instinctual. The same ones which had just taken down every gang member inside the building; now ready to take more, if needs must.

But then, as he took a breath to listen to the noises above, he realised that whoever it was would be far too occupied with what they were doing to pay him any mind. A smirk rose on his lips, finding humour in his situation as his nerves eased. Someone was certainly having a better night than he was...

Cupping his hands round his mouth, he called up to the rooftop, "Hey! Get a room!"

God, Roy was starting to rub off on him. That was definitely something he'd do...

Chuckling to himself, he pulled the keys to his car from his pocket, ready to drive home to his favourite red heads. All the while, his adoptive brother found his face pushed into the rough rooftop, panting hard, cheeks flushing red in embarrassment. They'd since moved around, Slade deciding he liked the authority this position gave him.

Sure, the mercenary had warned Dick that he was going to be punished. But he'd expected the usual spanking (which seemed to have ended suspiciously sooner than usual). Not this. Not the mortifying ordeal of Jason overhearing him get drilled into a puddle soaked rooftop in the rough end of Bludhaven. Because of course Slade had known Red Hood - his target - was Jason Todd. _Of course_. But it wasn't like Dick had the energy left to call him an asshole, like he usually would. And if he was being frank, he was also enjoying himself a bit much to think about it for any real length of time. As Slade drove forward again, hitting just the right spot, he found himself distracted again; attention back on his own pleasure, letting out little, 'ah-ah-ah's as his breath puffed out against the puddles.

He could be horrified later, far too close to chasing his high. That would be a problem for future Dick...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house, we stan consensual Slade/Dick.
> 
> For reference, when I'm writing, I picture an irl version of Travis Moore's Nightwing. Also Joe Manganiello's Slade.  
> Also! All my fics can be read as stand alone, but I'm kind of planning for them all to be set in the same world (so it all fits together) when I get around to writing more.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to be writing any series because both my mental health and my general life schedule said no. However! I'm willing to do a second chapter, but am in need of some audience participation. Do we want the follow on to be torture-y or horny? (Or some combination of the two if I can swing it). Obvs warnings will be added as needed as I go.


End file.
